Cadover received this inane pleasantry coldly. ‘There are about twenty people in here now,’ he said. ‘Just look round, will you, and tell me how many you recognize.’
The proprietor made a slow survey of the room. Then he shook his head. ‘Really, it’s difficult to say. Quite a lot of them do seem familiar.’ His gaze was upon the two undergraduates. These, having some dim knowledge of the ways of their kind before the deluge, had ordered a carafe of red wine and were now contemplating it in a gloom which might be either gustatory or financial. ‘But, do you know, I think it’s just their expressions?’ The proprietor looked puzzled. ‘Yes – I think it is only that.’
‘Here is the man I am talking about.’ And Cadover produced a photograph which had arrived just as he left the Metrodrome. ‘Do you recognize him?’
‘I think I do.’ The proprietor hesitated. ‘Or is it just the expression again? I’m afraid it’s only that. People who have been dining here…there’s some odd likeness…’
‘This man is dead. It’s the photograph of a corpse.’
The proprietor nodded – as if the matter now explained itself. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Well, life is a banquet, after all. And here we have the expression of one who is finished with it… Will you have some venison? It is the spécialité de la maison.’
‘I’ll have tinned pears, please – without custard. And I congratulate you on your baked beans.’
The proprietor received this compliment with a deep bow, dredged up from the nineteen-twenties. ‘To receive the praise of our patrons,’ he said, ‘is our only happiness. Our chef–’ He was interrupted by one of the undergraduates, who had risen from table with a complexion gone suddenly pea-green and was now making his way to some inner chamber with both hands clutched to his stomach. ‘But about this P C it is to be feared that I cannot help you. The features are not distinguished and he would not dwell in the memory.’
This, Cadover had already realized, was deplorably true. He put the photograph down on the worn tablecloth before him and produced a bunch of keys. ‘You don’t happen to have noticed anybody with these?’
‘I am afraid not.’
‘Nor with this?’ And Cadover produced the dead man’s pocket diary.
‘No. These are really very insignificant objects. Even if a customer were to produce them over and over again–’
‘Quite so. And here is my last exhibit.’ Cadover brought out a little pile of silver and copper and spread it on the table. ‘What about that?’
The proprietor looked bewildered. ‘But of course not! How can one hope to identify a man from a heap of coins?’
‘I’m afraid that’s very true. How could one identify your restaurant from a plate of tinned pears? Now, if it were the spécialité de la maison…’ Cadover was spreading out the coins on the table. ‘But have a look at them, all the same. You see, we’ve nothing else to go on.’
Markedly without enthusiasm, the proprietor poked among the coins. Suddenly he picked up a florin. ‘But this is most remarkable,’ he said.
‘Ah.’ Cadover’s comment had the carefully restrained quality of a man who plays out of a deep bunker and incredibly sees his ball make the green and trickle straight towards the hole.
‘It is a counterfeit, and rather an odd one. The waiter brought it to me and I explained to the gentleman.’
‘And how did the gentleman respond?’
‘He was most correct and took it back with an apology. There were reciprocal expressions of esteem and he remarked on the excellent quality of the venison. Just as you have done on the – um – baked beans. Just occasionally it is quite like old times… Good heavens, what is that – an ambulance?’
The pea-green undergraduate was indeed being carried out on a stretcher; his agonized voice could be heard incoherently repeating from Brideshead Revisited the majestic passage on caviar aux blinis and the hot, thin, bitter, frothy oseille… But Cadover paid no attention to this unsurprising incident. He had produced his photograph again. ‘And was this,’ he asked, ‘the man?’
The proprietor studied it anew and then shook his head. ‘I really cannot say. It is so much less characteristic than the florin, is it not? And the gentleman himself was assuredly of the kind who is like so many gentlemen. That I do remember. It is unfortunate that I am so little able to assist you.’
‘But at least you can remember approximately when this took place?’
‘It would be about ten days ago.’
‘And did the fellow have a companion or companions?’
‘There was a lady. But I cannot say that I recall her to mind. She was of the kind who is like so many ladies.’ The proprietor shook his head mournfully. ‘You have noticed how it is nowadays? Nothing of individuality any longer attached to the idea of style. And it is to be feared that the same influence attaches to modern cuisine. Times are hard and distinction difficult to attain. Even when one is so fortunate as to receive ample supplies of venison from Sutherland – or is it Ross and Cromarty? – one is sometimes at a loss–’
‘You do not recollect that you had ever seen either the man or the woman before? Neither came here regularly?’
‘I begin to recollect. Yes, I believe they have come together from time to time.’ The proprietor brightened. ‘Perhaps they may come again.’
‘The man is dead, remember. As a matter of fact, he has been murdered. So he won’t come again – unless he decides to haunt your kitchens. But the woman is another matter. If she–’
‘But she is here now!’ Even as he spoke the proprietor visibly blenched. ‘They are both here now – over at the table in the corner.’ He looked wistfully at Cadover. ‘Do you think a ghost might be good for trade?’
‘I think he might – if he were of the affable and familiar sort. Of course, if he went from table to table clutching his bowels and crying ‘Revenge!’ it might be another matter.’ Having delivered himself of this unkind nonsense, Cadover felt that he might allow himself to glance cautiously over his shoulder. The man whom the proprietor had discerned was certainly not unlike the man who had died in the Metrodrome that afternoon. Nevertheless, nothing supernatural was involved; this was no more than another person of markedly similar type. ‘And the woman?’ he asked the proprietor. ‘You are sure of her?’
‘Quite sure. I clearly recall that emerald ring. Yes, the lady is assuredly the same. But the gentleman’ – and the proprietor gave a sigh of relief – ‘is not.’
‘He is similar – that is all? In fact you might say he is the sort of man the lady dines with?’
The proprietor nodded. ‘You may put it that way. And she, of course, is the sort of lady who dines with that sort of man. In such moments as I can snatch from supervising the service and the cuisine the study of human nature is my main preoccupation. And here we have an interesting type.’
Cadover stirred his coffee and pushed his chair sideways so that he could command the couple in the corner by a sideways glance. ‘Would you say,’ he asked heavily, ‘that she is an improper woman?’
The proprietor sighed nostalgically. ‘My dear sir, you recall, if I may say so, memories of happier days. An improper woman – how many years is it since I have heard that exquisitely fin-de-siècle expression! I should judge that the lady is employed in some secretarial capacity in the City, and that she has a small circle of male friends.’
‘Also from the City?’
‘Possibly so. They will certainly not belong to the intellectual or artistic classes. The lady, although no doubt in one sense as improper as you aver, is extremely respectable. My experience, my dear sir, assures me of that at once. She is attractive to young men who, certain sharply defined necessities apart, require a healthy moral tone, such as every headmaster of a public school would approve.’
‘I see.’ Cadover felt old, and that the world and its types were passing beyond him. ‘Are the relationships to which you refer of a mercenary nature?’
‘The lady will undoubtedly receive presents
– quite substantial ones. But she will herself give presents of lesser value. It is all quite simple. And I judge that she will have no special lover or protector behind the scenes. It is life, is it not?’ And the proprietor, although his eye was uneasily on a customer who looked as if he might be about to give trouble over the fricassee of chicken, contrived to look nebulously philosophic.
Cadover, having clearly formed notions of the nature of vice, scowled unappreciatively. But he was studying the young man in the corner. ‘Would you say that the young man has been in the Army?’
The proprietor considered. ‘The Air Force, I should venture to judge.’
‘And that he is sociable, with an extensive but vague acquaintance, and that he hasn’t much in the way of brains?’
‘That would be very much my impression.’ The proprietor was gratified by these reiterated appeals to his judgement. ‘Distinctly what they used to call an operational type.’
Cadover rose. ‘I am going out to ring you up from the nearest call-box. You will then fetch that young man to the telephone.’
‘But we do not even know his name! Such a summons would be quite without plausibility.’
‘Possibly so. But when called to the telephone many people don’t pause to think.’
‘Very well. I shall endeavour to summon him avec instance, and we must hope for the best. I take it that your object is to get rid of him?’
‘Precisely. And – unlike that unfortunate youth – without the aid of an ambulance. But it would be as well if you had a taxi at the door, so that he can be whirled away without stopping to think. À bientôt!’ And with this tactful concession to the cosmopolitan character of Smith’s, Cadover slipped from the restaurant.
He found an empty call-box almost immediately, and the proprietor’s voice answered his call. He pressed Button A. ‘Go ahead,’ he said.
There was silence for something over a minute. Then a slightly surprised but cheerful voice spoke. ‘Hullo,’ it said.
‘Hullo?’ Cadover spoke as one of massively sunny disposition who is momentarily vexed. ‘Hullo…hullo? I can’t hear you.’
‘Hullo,’ said the voice.
‘Hullo…am I through? Who’s that speaking?’
‘Jake Syme speaking,’ said the voice innocently.
‘Good old Jake! Larry here.’
‘Larry?’ The voice was blank.
‘Not Larry – Harry.’
‘Good old Harry!’ The voice was instantly expansive. ‘How goes, Harry, you old whorehound?’
Cadover was disconcerted by this. Appropriate speech failed him. ‘Very well,’ he said.
‘Like hell? Well, that’s grand. Good old Larry.’
‘Harry,’ said Cadover.
‘Good old Harry. And how’s Larry?’
‘Like hell,’ said Cadover.
‘Well, that’s grand. Come round and have a drink.’
‘You come round and have a drink,’ said Cadover. ‘Know the Square Peg? Top-hole little party here. Hop into a taxi and come round now.’
‘Got a girl here.’ Jake Syme’s voice was suddenly confidential. ‘Bring her along too?’
‘What sort of girl?’
‘Girl.’
‘Better not.’ Cadover strained his invention. ‘The mater’s here,’ he said. ‘Top-hole party, but we’ve got the mater.’
‘I see.’ Jake’s voice was properly respectful. ‘Wouldn’t do, of course. I’ll leave her here for a bit.’
‘That’s right. Fill the old nose-bag and let her browse.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Nothing, old boy.’ Cadover realized that he had overreached himself with this outmoded trope. ‘Come right round now. So long.’
‘So long.’
Cadover left the call-box and walked with modest satisfaction back to Smith’s. He grew old, but his dexterity did not altogether fail him. A taxi was drawing out from the kerb as he approached, and he had the satisfaction of catching a glimpse of Jake Syme, his expression alive with innocent anticipations of pleasure. No vice in him, Cadover reflected – and then shook his head, remembering the lady within. A small circle of male friends… Well, there was a vacancy. And he had better announce the fact straight away.
The girl was eating an ice. Her expression of displeasure might have proceeded either from this or from the fact of Jake Syme’s having left her so cavalierly. Cadover sat down opposite her without ceremony. ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I want to speak to you.’
‘I don’t think we’ve met.’ The girl looked at him coldly. ‘I am with a friend. He has had to go out to meet somebody’s mother, but he will be back in a few minutes. I advise you to go away.’
‘I am Detective-Inspector Cadover of the Metropolitan Police. What I have to say will not take long, but it may distress you. Would you like to withdraw to the manager’s room?’
With a hand that trembled suddenly, the girl pushed away her ice and dived into a bag for her cigarette-case. ‘I don’t think you can have any business with me,’ she said. ‘You have no right to interfere with my private affairs.’
‘I don’t intend to.’ Cadover looked at her austerely and saw with discomfort that she was debating whether to try a little allure. But even as he looked she decided against this. Perhaps, he thought fleetingly, he had not the appearance of one who requires a healthy moral tone, such as every headmaster would approve, from the shady ladies of his acquaintance… ‘I merely want information about a man whom I have reason to believe to be known to you.’
The lady raised her eyebrows, and contrived to look at once spontaneously relieved and elaborately puzzled. ‘A man?’ she said – much as if Cadover had mentioned an iguanodon or a tapir. ‘I don’t think I know many men.’
‘I believe you know a sufficient number for my purpose.’ Cadover was suddenly grim. ‘And this is a photograph of the body.’
‘The body…?’ The girl stared at the square of pasteboard. ‘Is Peter dead?’
‘I am sorry to have to tell you that he died of a bullet wound in a West End cinema this afternoon. He appears to have been accompanied by a woman and a boy.’
With a nervous and automatic movement the girl smoothed her hair. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said. ‘He was awfully nice…a really good sort.’ Her voice broke. ‘He was the soul of honour and fair play. I liked him more…more than anybody I know. We both liked music.’ She looked at Cadover with eyes suddenly perfectly ingenuous and swimming in tears. ‘We usually went to a concert first.’
‘I am sorry to have such bad news.’ Cadover’s discomfort in this strange world was not abated. ‘At least I have little more with which to trouble you. What was your friend’s name?’
‘His name?’ The girl was puzzled. ‘His name was Peter.’
‘But his surname – and his address?’
‘I – I’m afraid I don’t know. He – he was rather a casual acquaintance, in a way. We met at a party about a year ago. He used just to drop me a line – not one with any address on it – and we would meet for a show or something.’
‘I see.’ Cadover had not reckoned upon this extreme discretion in young men disposed to combine dalliance and moral tone. ‘But he must have spoken about himself and his circumstances?’
‘Hardly at all. I think he had done pretty well at dangerous jobs in the war. I know he had been about the world a bit. And I rather think he was looking for something to settle down to. But he never spoke of his people, or anything like that. He was rather shy.’
‘That is no doubt one way of expressing it. But about those notes that he sent you – when did you receive the last?’
‘Only a few days ago. And it was jolly decent of him to write.’ The young woman looked at Cadover with suddenly startled eyes. ‘But there was something in it about a cinema! And about a boy, too. He was going away with a boy. It was nice of him to let me know…’ She was now fumbling in a bag. ‘Yes, I thought so. Here it is.’ And she handed Cadover a letter.
H
e looked at the envelope and saw that it was directed to Miss Joyce Vane at an address in Maida Vale; he opened it and read:
DEAR JOYCE, – I’m terribly sorry I shan’t be seeing you for some time, as on Thursday I’m off to Ireland with a kid who sounds a bit of a handful all round. This is a terrible bore! I’ve been making inquiries since I got the job and it appears that the lad’s father is a terrible scientific swell. He has a laboratory in which he cracks atoms much as you and I might crack nuts when lucky enough to be having one of our jolly dinners together. Perhaps this is why the lad is insisting on taking me to see a film with atom bombs in it just before we leave. It’s called Plutonium Blonde. But there is only one blonde for me and I will see her again as soon as I can.
Love,
PETER.
The letter bore no address and it had been posted in the West End; nevertheless, Cadover scanned it with something like exultation. Smith’s and the counterfeit florin had been mere wisps of hope – but they had led to what, compared with the situation an hour before, were inestimable riches. He took a slip of paper from his pocket and scribbled. ‘Miss Vane,’ he said, handing it to her, ‘here is your receipt for this document. This is your address in Maida Vale? And you have no other information that you can give?’ Cadover’s eye as he spoke was on the door; it would be as well to beat a retreat before the return of the indignant Jake Syme. He rose. ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘I think I’d have a drink ready for your friend when he gets back. He may be a little cross. And I’m sorry if my news has been a shock to you. Good evening.’
And Cadover hurried into the street, glancing at his watch as he did so. It was eight o’clock. Still compelled by an obscure sense of urgency, he set himself a time-limit. By midnight he would have found a terrible scientific swell who possessed, first, a laboratory in which atoms were cracked like nuts, and, second, a son who was a bit of a handful all round.
The Journeying Boy Page 11